From Every Limb the Leaves are Cast
by Desi
Summary: Aoshi & Misao discovering themselves and each other
1. Default Chapter

Paris, France 1884.

He often thought it odd; the insignificant things that so many times served to mark the defining moments in one's life. An errant breeze drifting across bare skin, not cool. Not fragrant. Not remarkable in any sense; it was simply air drifting into a room and wafting by. Still he could recall with perfect clarity the feel and scent of that zephyr, noticeable only because he felt it, was distracted by it… He who was never distracted by anything could no longer keep his concentration focused against the merest intrusion.

She had done this to him. She made him notice life and all its distractions. She had shown him that he was still alive. She had been his first distraction… and how he had hated her for it. He had relished the stark emptiness of what he'd become after death had come calling. Not his own death, the death of others, the death of his honor and the death of his soul as he relinquished every human emotion from his being and began his ill-fated quest for the title of 'the strongest'. The title belonged to another however; it always would, he had accepted that fate and moved on… into emptiness.

He was content then, he would have gladly spent the rest of his life in such a state of emptiness, no dark, no light, almost… nonexistence. Aware but uninvolved. She however, with the light of her soul burning so bright, would soon diminish the contented nonexistence he had found. He would never forget the sound of her voice, twinkling musically as it reached his soul and pulled him from that nothingness the first time. 

And now? He lifted his eyes to the letters above the window, reading with some difficulty the foreign words pieced together out of the western alphabet 'Paris School of Fine Art & Gallery. The sun's reflection off the glass almost blinding in its brightness, the feel of his black hair growing warm as it absorbed the rays, no different than moments before, yet it was. Now, like then, what was insignificant was made indelible as the painting displayed behind the glass, unmistakably revealed… he had found her. 

"Monsieur! Monsieur!" The young boy bolted up the narrow stairwell leading from the gallery to the studio above. He dashed past the open area, normally alive with a sea of students, himself included; easels and half finished or barely begun attempts at what would some day be a masterpiece. It was quiet now, no sign of the students who had all but this morning been chatting, sipping coffee or tea as they contemplated their creations. Considering the effects of maybe a different color here, another brushstroke there or starting completely fresh with a new canvas all together. 

"Monsieur!" He called again as he pounded down the hall, his loud steps no doubt announcing his arrival before his words as he raced with barely contained excitement. He had the most exciting news and wanted to be the first to tell his favorite, everyone's favorite, resident artist and teacher.

"In here, Edouardu-kun!" The distinctly foreign voice called him quietly into the small, private studio at the end of the hall. He had grown used to the heavy accent of his favorite teacher over the last several months, had even learned some of the more frequently spoken Japanese words, as had many of the other students at the school. One thing that did continue to startle him however, no matter how often he saw him, no matter how much time he spent in his company he could never get used to how small and fragile his teacher looked. Even now, he stopped in the doorway staring at the petite frame of his back as he worked on a painting across the room, the small hands, moving delicately, creating magic on an ordinary sheet of paper with the brush he held. The trademark beret he never seemed to be without only served to add to his youthful appearance, as did the vest that accentuated how small he was under his shirt.

Rumor had it that he had been sickly in his youth and never recovered, although his knowledge of life in Japan was limited, Edouard knew that this was common enough here in France and imagined that life in Japan mirrored life all over the world in many ways. Children from all walks of life were scattered over the earth; rich, poor and sick as well as healthy. He, being one of the more fortunate ones had grown up in a household of above average means, educated better than most and certainly he had never suffered a lack of good health. He often wondered what sort of upbringing his teacher had, often on the verge of asking, something had always stopped him, something in his eyes, a silent pleading that foretold of a unbearable pain and guilt and whispered 'do not ask'. 

"Nani yo, Edouardu-kun?" He snapped out of his reverie at the question, only then realizing that his teacher had turned around and was waiting for an explanation for his boorish intrusion, albeit with a smile.

"Pardon Monsieur." He stepped further into the room unable to keep himself from smiling at the kind, blue eyes that met his. "I just came from the gallery. Your painting has sold!"

"Is that all?" He chuckled with indifference as he set the paintbrush aside, Edouard's smile faltered as he watched the young man move to retrieve his wool coat from where it lay carelessly thrown across a chair. Slipping his arms into the sleeves, appearing even smaller folded within the bulky fabric. "With that much excitement I had thought maybe lady Dion had fallen into the mud again."

"But, monsieur…" Suddenly at a loss for words Edouard hesitated, shaking his head incredulously at the artist's response, or lack of one. "Your painting; it sold for a great deal of money!"

"What do I care for more money?" Edouard heard the other man whisper an almost melancholy note to his voice as he walked past him and into the hall, shaking his head sadly, his eyes downcast as he continued. "It serves only to reveal evil in the hearts of man; provokes them to steal, commit murder and seek revenge."

The boy followed him down the hall, stopping at the top of the stairwell watching the other descend. Lifting his hand, he reached out without any hope of catching the one who was now exiting through the door.

"Monsieur Hanya…" Edouard dropped his hand to his side as the other man stepped out into the streets of Paris below. "… I'm sorry."

The words were heard so often now that the person to whom everyone associated them almost believed it to be nothing but the truth, almost. Lost in the blue eyes that gazed back in the window's reflection, lips moving as they uttered the lie that had become the truth, 'Hanya'. Small fingers clutched at the windowsill, staring intently, waiting, willing for the heart that remained so troubled for so long to be as the painting was… disposed of. 

Kyoto, Japan 1880

Two years had passed since the Oniwabanshu had welcomed the former Okashira back into the folds of their forgiving embrace. Misao, forever faithful to the dream of Aoshi-sama's happiness, of seeing him smile and able to forgive himself, was beginning to lose faith in that dream. On several occasions she was certain that she'd seen something… something, but was that merely wishful thinking on her part? His cool demeanor replaced any flashes of emotion he might have displayed so quickly that she was beginning to think that she had imagined it. She no longer cared if he smiled; that wasn't true, she'd never stopped caring about that, she'd simply given up trying to make him, now she just wanted to know that there was something within him other than regret.

"Aoshi-sama." She called quietly, following down the hall toward his room where he returned in silence each night after joining her and the others for dinner. She noticed the immediate straightening of his shoulders and stiffening of his back at the sound of her voice, it was almost enough to send her scurrying away to her own room but she'd grown used to this obvious display of his. She stepped closer. "I promise not to take up too much of your time."

He sighed heavily, nodding in resignation before turning around to face her; Misao nearly gasped, the same reaction filling her every fiber as she looked at him, so beautiful and so frightening, she could feel herself start to tremble. Misao gave herself a mental shake, reigning in her overactive feelings for her former leader and took another step closer, surprised when he matched her with a step back.

Why would he do that? She wondered, her brows coming together in a frown, meeting his, seeing something flash in their sea blue depths and then disappear. She took another step toward him and her frown deepened when this time he did not move and after a confused look at his stoic face she moved to stand in front of him.

"What is it Misao?" He demanded in his cold, lifeless voice when she'd been about to ask him what was wrong, what was troubling him and if she could do anything to help.

"I… I… I wanted to give you this." Her words came in a rush after she stammered over them and embarrassed she thrust the carefully wrapped package at him to which he only stared. She thought it must be an odd picture, the two of them standing in the narrow hall, the firelight from the lantern casting a warm, golden glow around them. She with her hand outstretched, offering him a gift, he merely staring back, stiff and unmoving and making no attempt to take it. He was refusing her and she was dying inside, drowning in sorrowful tears; would he make no attempt to save her, would he not offer his hand and pull her free of the violent waves crashing around her, pulling her under, filling her lungs, stopping her from drawing a breath? She was resigned to her death; she let herself drift below the surface, only to find herself being pulled to safety as he took the gift from her. "Aoshi-sama…"

"Why have you bought me a gift Misao?" He asked, examining the package he now held in his hand, it was very obviously a book, which would no doubt surprise him coming from her.

"It's your birthday Aoshi-sama." She smiled indulgently at him as she realized he had most likely forgotten, just as he had the year before when she'd given him the painting she'd worked so hard on. "It's to celebrate your being alive."

"Being alive…" He whispered, so quiet she barely heard him. He seemed lost in thought for a moment and Misao could only wonder at what was racing through his head, she was worried that he was going to give the gift back to her and so she remained still, pensive, holding her breath… waiting. She stiffened when he stepped closer, fought the urge to cry when she saw his hand raising, knowing that he was going to hand the gift back to her. She gasped when she felt the light touch of his fingers as he brushed back one errant lock of hair that seemed to always want to fall across her face. Her eyes widened to resemble saucers as they met his, reading clearly, for the first time since his return something other than emptiness and regret, reading… solace maybe? A far cry from happiness but it was at least comforting. "Arigato Misao."

The moment was lost, coming to an abrupt halt as a resounding crash and the protesting scream of a woman echoed throughout the Aoiya. In unison Misao and Aoshi turned and bolted for the restaurant where the sound originated, entering through the kitchen to find three strange men facing Okon, Omasu and Shiro. Okina stood to one side, assessing the situation from his viewpoint just as she and Aoshi did from theirs. 

As Okashira it was her duty to take action; she had determined that the three men held no advantage and were most likely cowardly bandits who thought they'd wandered into a quick way to make some money from an unprotected proprietor of a restaurant. Without hesitation or fear Misao stepped through the doorway and between the bandits and her three friends, she sensed Aoshi joining the others behind her. 

"I believe you have wandered into the wrong establishment." She offered them the chance to leave peacefully, without incident or injury and certainly without drawing any attention to the band of ninja that still lived there. "I suggest you leave here before you regret your actions."

"I've been looking for you quite some time little girl." The one who was obviously the leader stepped forward, sword drawn, a sinister smile appearing on his face. "I am not about to leave until I get my revenge for the two years of hell in that rat infested jail."

She frowned, turning slightly to look at Aoshi out of the corner of her eye, a slight negative shake of her head at the question she could see in his eyes. She turned back to the leader, meeting his hate-filled eyes with her own steadfast gaze, still determined to end the confrontation without resorting to fighting Misao took one step forward, putting her hand out, signaling Omasu to stop upon hearing her advancing from behind.

"You have apparently mistaken me for someone else ojisan." She spoke calmly but with a commanding tone. "I am Mikamachi Misao, Okashira of the Onmitsu Oniwabanshu and I am quite certain we have never met."

"You may have forgotten little girl but I will never forget the time I spent in Odawara." He ground out bitterly taking another step toward her. "You took the money my comrades and I stole from the Tamura Money Exchange, then tricked us and left us in the woods where the police caught us. We were imprisoned in that stinking rat hole town, living on rotted rice and filthy water for nearly two years."

Misao gasped her eyes widening as realization dawned, on her way home from searching for Aoshi and the others; she'd run out of money before reaching Kyoto, she'd taken the money they'd stolen only to be stopped and forced to return it by Himura. 

"Yakuza." She whispered acknowledging her recollection to the leader whose bitter smile grew as he nodded. She had taken them easily enough by herself two years ago and was positive that she could do so now, the corners of her mouth lifted in an arrogant smirk. "Are you certain you want to suffer humiliation at my hands a second time? There are only three of you now and I'm a much better fighter than I was then."

"Misao." She turned slightly at the warning in Aoshi's voice. A frown creased her brow at the look he gave her; did he still think her so incapable? Still a child who could not make decisions as a leader should? She turned her back angrily on Aoshi, she would show him that she was no longer a child and facing the yakuza once more the arrogant smirk appearing on her face again as she proclaimed. "I can take them, the rest of you stay back."

"Kisama!" The leader charged and Misao's smile widened as she stood and waited for his approach. She evaded him easily at the last possible moment, ducking low then launching high, landing directly behind him brandishing her kunai in each hand.

"Kansatsu Tobikunai!" She shouted and released both sets of daggers, piercing each of the bandits in several places, none of them vital but it is enough to bring them down, whimpering in pain. She vaulted again, just in time to avoid the slashing sword of the leader. Landing well out of his sword reach she leapt and came down smashing the back of his hand with one of her metal guards making him drop the sword. His eyes grew wide and his mouth is left agape as she landed directly in front of him, he took a swing at her, which she evaded and then countered with a powerful kick to his face, sending him to the floor.

Brushing her hands together as if dusting them off she stepped over the fallen bandit and stood directly in front of Aoshi, placing her hands on her hips she smiled up at him gleefully. "See! Piece of cake." She told him and he nodded slightly. She noticed his eyes suddenly growing wide and could feel her own doing the same at such an expressive gesture coming from him. Quicker than she could process any movement being made she found herself against him, she heard shouting and then realized that she was now in the exact spot occupied by Aoshi moments ago and he was now where she had stood.

"Unnnghh." She heard Aoshi groan and looked up to see his eyes squeezing shut in pain, her arms came around his waist as she felt him grow heavy against her. She lowered herself to the floor taking him with her, as gently as she could. 

"Leader huh?" She looked up into the eyes of the yakuza, his sword drawn, blood dripping from the end… Aoshi's blood. What had she done? "If by that you mean you lead your people to death, I would say you are right. You should find a new line of work little girl, you're not fit to lead."

Misao could only stare at the bandit, his words playing on her every insecurity; she looked down at Aoshi who had taken that sword for her. Guilt filled her at the pained expression on his face, shame washed over her as he groaned again. What had she done? She wondered again at what her foolish arrogance had caused, the continued shouts of the yakuza as Kuro dragged him off. In shock and unresponsive she didn't even feel him being lifted away, didn't even realize she was no longer holding him until Shiro had already carried Aoshi away. 

"Misao!" Okina's sharp voice made her jump as she looked up from where she still sat on the floor. "Go get the doctor!"

She nodded numbly and ran out the door to the doctor's house down the street; he came willingly enough. The old man had grown used to their late night calls over the years, although he grumbled every time, tonight being no exception as he lectured Misao all the way back to the Aoiya. Reprimanding her about being more careful, about taking chances with her own and with the lives of others. If he'd but known that these were the very things that were eating away at her this very moment, his words compounding those of the yakuza, the guilt she felt over not heeding Aoshi's warning, the shame of being the cause of his injury. Aoshi had been right to doubt her abilities, the yakuza was right; she was not fit to lead these people in anything. Once they arrived at the Aoiya the doctor was led away by Okon and Misao crept hastily away to her room where self-doubt continued to eat away at her, growing and metamorphosing into that ugliest of monsters, worthlessness. She was… unworthy. She had no business trying to lead the Oniwabanshu, she was not of their caliber, she didn't belong among them at all.

"Tsumara nai." She whispered pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them the darkness of her room surrounding her, hiding her. "Gomen ne Aoshi-sama."

For the next two days she wandered around the Aoiya in a daze, she barely touched her food at meals, sleep continued to evade her and she'd grown so ashamed that she could not even raise her eyes to meet the others. When Okina suggested that she bring Aoshi his tea she flat out refused, shocking everyone when she did so. Okina had gone to her room when she'd disappeared shortly after their morning meal, he told her that she owed it to Aoshi to, at the very least check on his well being, he had been wounded on her behalf and her attitude appeared anything but grateful.

"I am not grateful Okina." She turned her pain-filled blue eyes to him, her words surprising but not so much as the torment he could read in her eyes. "I wish it were me, I deserve that wound, not him."

"Misao." He whispered sympathetically reaching out to squeeze her small hand in his own. "Go see him, you'll feel better if you do."

Okina had been wrong, if anything it only served to make her feel worse seeing Aoshi lying there, pale and still, his brow furrowed in pain even as he slept. She had run from the room without saying a word, unable to bear the weight of the guilt she felt upon seeing him.

That night after writing a note to Aoshi she carefully folded her Oniwabanshu uniform and left the Aoiya, she would never set foot in it again. Along with enough money to buy passage to Europe and food she had taken the letter addressed to Okina that one of his connections had sent, inviting his ward to study art in Paris after seeing several of her watercolors. She had exchanged her kimono for boys clothing along the route to Osaka where upon boarding the massive ship, Mikamachi Misao became… Hanya. 

Paris, France 1884

If only one could buy their release from guilt and heartache, if only one's self-worth could be bought with money. The way someone had given money for the painting of Okina's garden that was now absent from the empty display. Four years and still there was to be no release, four years of living as someone else and still, nothing but the same sense of dishonor and anguish.

She lowered her eyes against those that reflected back at her what she did not want to see; turning away from the image of what she still was… a lie_. Just like then when I called myself Okashira; that was a lie_. She thought silently as she walked away, becoming lost in the waves of people who ebbed along like the tide into the shore and then out to sea.

****


	2. From Every Limb the Leaves are Cast - 2

Paris, France 1884

Aoshi walked leisurely through the loud city streets, the sounds of laughter and loud foreign voices piercing his sensitive ears. A sea of varying faces drifted toward him as others came from behind and moved away, he drifted among them with almost childlike curiosity. So many different kinds of people he could not recall ever seeing, men and women with hair colors that covered the entire spectrum from the palest of yellow, red reminiscent of Himura's unusual shade, varying hues of brown and black. Each of them so different, so unlike Japan. 

Although one could see the influx of westerners in Tokyo of late building in number, they remained a novelty within Japan for the most part. The gazes of most who passed by him here, which he chose to ignore would indicate that, just like a westerner in Japan, it was a novelty to see an Asian in this country.

Aoshi's steps slowed and finally stopped at the window of one of the many shops that lined the city streets. The people were not the only marked differences; the entire structure of the city, the way the shops were closed off into structures that allowed only a teasing view of what lay within was so unlike the open air markets of Tokyo. Merchants stored their wares behind walls of stone and wood, select items were displayed elegantly behind the glass to those passing by, hoping to catch their attention. It was one such window that caught his attention. A women's shop, he would imagine by the contents displayed in the window; long flowing manes of hair, each separated by color, each held together by a ribbon at the top. Straight, golden brown hair with ringlets, a mass of light red curls and one in particular... a long, black braid.

Could it be? He wondered his heart beginning to pound in his chest as he stared almost mesmerized, then as memories came flooding back, he shook his head. No. He knew without a doubt that it could not.

Kyoto, Japan 1880

Aoshi shifted restlessly where he lay on the futon, wincing at the sharp stab of pain in his shoulder; he much preferred the pain of the wound than those intoxicating drugs that played tricks on his mind, the doctor had prescribed. He was growing uneasy as for the second day a strange sense of something terribly wrong settled over him. He could not put his finger on it but it was as if there were a storm brewing, a ferocious storm, gathering force as it moved along, the Aoiya its destination.

It was still early, yet the sounds of voices, like the quiet rumblings of distant thunder reached his ears. He pulled himself upright and again the pain made him wince but he knew the storm was approaching fast and he had no choice other than to ignore the pain and face it. As if caught in a gale the shoji door thrust open and Okina entered, the storm clouds, thick and heavy, ready to vent their fury entering behind him, filling the room.

"Aoshi!" Okina addressed him and it was like a thunderclap, making him cringe as the old man stepped closer and set a package on the floor next to where he sat on the futon. "She is gone."

Like a statue he sat, cold and lifeless against the storm that unleashed itself upon him, upon them all. His eyes drifted from Okina's to the envelope lying on top of the neatly folded uniform. His name scrawled elegantly across it, like a verdict. Fighting against the raging winds of the storm he reached for the envelope, removing the folded sheet of paper, it wasn't a verdict he realized as he read it, it was a sentencing, his sentence, not to death but something far worse, to life, without her. '_I am sorry. Misao'_. He did not think she had used so few words in her life, or been so cruel.

"Do you think she went to the Himura's?" Okina's voice broke through the lashing rain; Aoshi could hear the hope in Okina's voice, the hope that they would survive this storm, that she would come back and save them.

"Iie." Aoshi spoke dully; leaning against the wall, closing his eyes against the pain of the violent storm, knowing that she would not come back to save them and that the destruction of this storm was beyond any they had confronted before. "She is as you say, gone."

"We have to stop her!" He spoke vehemently, refusing to let up against the storm. "We have enough contacts! Certainly we can find her."

"Leave her go Okina." Aoshi whispered. "She does not want us to find her."

"What are you saying? How the hell would you know what she wants?" Okina lashed out, his voice quieting as he continued. "You don't even know her."

"Chigai!" Aoshi unleashed his own fury and in its wake the storm paled. Their eyes met and Okina was clearly shocked at such a display of emotion from his former Okashira. Forcing himself to calm down Aoshi took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "You're wrong Okina, I know her... perhaps better than anyone."

Resigned and sorrowful, Okina left Aoshi's room to tell the others that it was determined she would not be returning to the Aoiya. Although he agreed that she was most likely not planning to go to the Himura's Okina would send word of her disappearance just the same, in hopes that they were wrong and she had gone there, or perhaps that they might see her in Tokyo.

Once again alone in his room Aoshi stared for what seemed like an eternity at the neatly folded blue uniform of the Oniwabanshu. He brushed his fingers over the vibrant purple obi that rest on top, then delved in, burying his fingers deep in the silken fabric, fisting his hand tight not sure if he would ever be able to let go. As he had let her go or rather... as he had pushed her away. He lifted the soft pile of fabric and let it fall onto his lap, his eyes narrowing at the golden ring on the end of a black rope as it slipped free of its hiding place among the silk. His eyes widened in surprise as realization dawned; her hair, she had severed it and left it behind, just as she had him, as she had all of them. 

Aoshi lifted the sheet of paper he still held in his right hand, unfolding it to read the brief message yet again. Beautifully simplistic in every sense, just like the storm with its deceitfully calm, white clouds that hid the fury of the storm within them, so did Misao's words hide in them, not fury, something far more destructive... guilt. He knew well the repercussions of letting guilt rule your life and could only hope that she would not allow her own guilt to lead her down a similar path.

In the wake of her departure winter came; like a symbol of her absence the skies remained gray and dreary, just as his life did. As much as he ignored her while she had lived under the same roof and wished for her to leave him in peace, now that she was gone he could find none and six months after Misao had left the Aoiya, Aoshi left as well. 

Ironically he went to visit with the Himura's, initially surprised at their invitation he found himself accepting it and actually looking forward to his stay with them. He knew that the Himura's had received word from Misao and although they never spoke of her to him, Aoshi found comfort just being near those who had a connection with her, albeit a limited one, it was still a connection.

The Kamiya dojo, growing in popularity was always busy with students and oddly enough Aoshi didn't seem to mind the lack of solitude, he often observed the student's progress from a quiet corner in the dojo, sometimes grudgingly agreeing to help demonstrate certain steps. Koaru-san was a gentle instructor, an odd mix of fragility and strength, perfect for this peaceful era and he found he could not look at her without thinking of another that was the same.

Although they both insisted that he stay, when he learned that they were expecting a child Aoshi felt that he had intruded upon the Himura's hospitality enough and found his own place. Only a short walk from the dojo where he remained a regular visitor, helping out more with the students as Koaru-san's condition made it impossible for her to continue teaching. Time passed and without realizing it Aoshi had grown close to those at the Kamiya dojo, it surprised him once he realized it, then again, who else but Himura Kenshin could possibly get through the barriers he had erected over the years? Who else indeed... 

Aoshi had come to recognize the signs indicating that they had once again heard from Misao, each letter would produce a look of such sympathy from Koaru-san while her husband would simply smile sadly at him and both of them would grow uncharacteristically quiet. Aoshi knew that they would gladly inform him of her well being, of her new life away from him, all he need do was ask, but he refused to broach the subject and they in turn, remained silent. She had moved on, someday he would move on as well.

Paris, France 1884

__

Misao. He thought as he turned away from the disturbing image of the braid and the memories it evoked. _How could I have been so blind? _

"Pardon monsieur." Came a whispered apology.

Misao reprimanded herself as she failed to respond; to all intents and purposes this town new her as Hanya, the artist, a man not a woman, a fabrication that she had worked hard to maintain and here she was, forgetting herself. She smiled at the man, nodded and then moved on berating herself further for her lack of concentration; it had been four years after all... and there in lie the problem. It had been four years... and she was weary beyond belief. Not from lack of sleep or over-exertion, no she was weary in her soul, weary from keeping up the guise of being a man. Most of all she was weary from pushing down emotions that should have left her long ago. How she had tried to exercise them from her heart, in her painting she had expressed her feelings again and again, but to no avail and now... she was beaten down by it all. 

How she longed for a hint of Japan to ease her loneliness, not Kyoto. No. She was finished with Kyoto and all its darkness but the smells of her homeland, the simple pleasures, like the feel of a silk kimono against your skin, or even more simple... the food. She smiled at the memory of picking nashi from the tree, of preparing tea for... Her smile faded. She could still recall his pale eyes and dark hair with perfect clarity. Yes, she missed Japan, terribly.

France was beautiful in its own way and Paris had offered her a bustling sea of faces that she could shuffle amongst for all this time. Paris had also offered her what Japan could not; a place to become someone else, where she could hide from herself and others should they come looking.

Knowing that Koaru would inform the others that she was well, Misao had written her upon arriving in this land of strangers and their correspondence, although it was slow because of the distance, continued regularly. She had been careful not to single anyone out when mentioning the Aoiya; Koaru however, refused to remain so vague in her letters. Misao was unable to stem her surprise when she'd learned of Aoshi visiting the Himura's and even more so when Koaru mentioned his settling in Tokyo permanently. She now considered him part of the family; a family that was growing in number as she and Kenshin had been blessed with their first child, a boy. Koaru described in great detail the joy that Kenji brought to their lives and how the little boy often got into staring matches with his ojisan until one of them would smile. Kenji lost continuously but Koaru had caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of Aoshi's mouth more than once. Misao could not help but smile herself, Aoshi had been a good guardian, infinitely patient and kind, he had made certain her childhood was happy and it was, despite the loss of her parents. She had so many happy memories with him and often in her loneliness she would recall them and feel a little less lonely...

...Seven year old Misao walked along the riverbed, firmly gripping Aoshi's hand as they explored. Every now and then Aoshi would stop, crouch down and pick up a handful of the flat, river rocks. He would then proceed to pick through them; dropping most back onto the ground he would keep a few then stand up, walk several feet and repeat the ritual again. After repeating the act a few more times Misao's curiosity won out and she asked him why he was keeping all the rocks.

"Not all the rocks Misao." He explained calmly as he climbed to his feet and moved on again. "Only those that I like."

This brought on a quiet fit of giggles.

"Demo… Aoshi-sama… all the river rocks look the same." She explained as if she held all the knowledge of the world within her seven-year-old intellect.

"They are not all the same Misao." He stopped and crouched down beside her, opening his hand for her to see the rocks that he had collected and pulling his other hand free of hers he picked up one and held it out to her. "Do you see how this one is dark gray and if you turn it just so..."

He turned the rock in the sunlight and she gasped at the wonder before her, eyes widening at the miracle he was showing her.

"It has stripes!" She whispered in surprise reaching for the rock he held up. She lifted it closer to her face for further inspection, looking back at him sternly, eyebrows creasing in a concentrated frown she placed the rock back in his palm then demanded "How did you do it? How did you get the stripes in the rock?"

"I did not put them there Misao, nature has bestowed this gift." He explained gently handing her another, this one lighter gray and smooth as glass, still shinning even though it was no longer wet. "Each of these rocks may look the same at first but if you stop and take the time, you'll notice that each is very different from the other."

She put that one down and picked up another, holding it up in the light much as he had the first one.

"This one has green swirls in it!" She exclaimed happily, then set it down to retrieve another. "And this one sparkles, ne Aoshi-sama." 

"Hai Misao, it does sparkle." He took the rock back as she held it out to him and rose up from his crouched position. She quickly grabbed hold of his empty hand and they resumed their lazy exploration of the riverbed.

Their expedition turned into a much longer event than she could handle and as she began to stumble while they walked, Aoshi, quickly recognized the signs of fatigue. He was forced to drop the stones he'd collected and carry her back to the Aoiya.

She began to cry when he gave up his rocks and was adamant that she was able to walk on her own all the way home. He had insisted that she stop her childish behavior or he would not take her with him the next time he went exploring. She'd quieted immediately although her lip protruded a little further than usual the rest of the way home.

Two days later, with the help of Hanya, Misao returned to the river determined to find, among the thousands that were there, the rocks that he'd been forced to abandon because of her. She brought them home and left them outside his door, wrapped in a scrap of blue silk that Hanya had produced as if by magic...

__

...You still did not take me with you the next time you went exploring Aoshi-sama. She whispered silently her smile fading as another memory came to the forefront of her mind. _You left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye, as well as the other Oniwabanshu who never returned again._

_You didn't really return either_. She acknowledged silently_. Did you Aoshi-sama?_


	3. From Every Limb the Leaves are Cast - 3

Paris, France 1884

Aoshi sipped the horrible coffee beverage that the Parisians were so fond of, although he enjoyed the relaxing atmosphere of the small café; it pointed out another marked difference between the western world and Japan. The teahouses of Japan were elegant and formal, the café's of Paris were notably informal. Like this one, most of the tables were located outdoors and although he much preferred green tea to coffee, which was far too bitter for his tastes, he appreciated being able to sit and watch the world go by. 

Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small sheet of paper and unfolded it, written across it were two addresses, one he had been to earlier that afternoon; the art school. The other address was his next destination; a small cottage on the outskirts of town, he lifted his head and scanned the horizon, noting the blue sky giving way to gray. Clouds were crowding in; not storm clouds but those of a refreshing spring shower; it would be dark soon and he wanted to make certain that he was there before nightfall as well as before the rain. Folding the sheet of paper Aoshi slipped it back into his pocket, climbing to his feet he dropped an appropriate amount of money on the table and stepped out into the street toward the outskirts of town. As he moved along the notably less crowded streets toward his destination, Aoshi found himself thinking of other city streets that he had walked not so very long ago with Himura…

Tokyo, Japan 1884 (three months earlier)

"Aoshi." Himura's voice broke the companionable silence they shared. "I need to make one more stop before going back to the dojo"

"Is it important?" Aoshi asked wondering if this was something the police chief had asked him to check out for possible criminal behavior.

"It has been hinted that some of Hiko's work is being exhibited at the new art gallery." He explained, his tone turning sullen as he continued. "I feel obligated to go."

Knowing how arrogant Hiko Seijuurou is, although it was not without good reason, Aoshi didn't doubt that Himura's former sensei had made certain to inform him, as well as anyone else who would listen.

"Shouldn't you be asking your wife?" Aoshi asked having no wish to be the object of Koaru-san's anger. She could really make someone miserable when she was provoked.

"Eto…" Himura's smile grew, his eyes creasing at the corners while he scratched the back of his head. "Koaru has no wish to go."

__

I'll bet. Thought Aoshi. _She probably cracked him over the head a few times with her bokken and screamed loud enough to wake the dead when he suggested it._

"She still doesn't like Hiko eh?" He asked and without a hint of humor.

"No." His smile grew wider as he turned and led the way to the gallery. 

They wandered through several exhibits before coming upon Hiko's work labeled with the alias he had assumed. Aoshi admired several of the pieces admitting that they were quite good, however not being a great fan of that medium his interest waned. Mumbling an excuse to Himura, he opted for exploring the many watercolors and woodblock paintings before moving on to the items recently brought from Europe. The differences were very notable, from the landscapes to the portraits, the styles and even the colors were not typically found in Japan. Growing up used to one style of painting it was hard to get used to or even like another and Aoshi much preferred the simplicity of those from his homeland than the vibrant and grandiose paintings on display from Europe. He passed by each with grudging appreciation until, his attention caught, he suddenly stopped, arrested by the haunting familiarity of a portrait on the wall in front of him. 

Wispy locks of black hair framing delicate features; eyes that should be sparkling with life were solemn and dark. Lips that should be curved into a spirited smile were tight and drawn. The colors used in the painting were bright and bold, from the vibrant red of the kimono to the lush green of the background, however the entire painting looked as though it had been washed over in black, making it somehow melancholy. This was nothing however; compared to the sadness expressed by the subject, so poignant he had to choke back the burning sensation building in his throat. The face in the painting cried, screamed at him. I am lost. I am frightened, while at the same time it begged and pleaded, save me. Comfort me.

"Misao…" Her name a breathy whisper, lowering his eyes to the title plaque, located just beneath the work, looking for confirmation but hoping for contradiction. He found both as his eyes scanned over the title, simply called 'sorrowful' and below that the artist's name, his eyes widening in surprise as he read 'Hanya'.

__

Why would she…

You know why. His silent curiosity was cut off by his own silent self-reprimand.

__

Yes, I know why. Aoshi agreed with himself after a moment of silent contemplation_. _Misao's enormous heart, the capacity of which was infinite; she could forgive the world anything, the most undeserving of villains, himself included, would find refuge in her beautiful soul. Yet, she had not the ability to forgive herself, to live with her own mistakes and so… she had become someone else.

__

You know this, feel this and yet remain drifting within this pseudo half-life? His own scathing voice asked. _Without her? Leaving her within the same? Without you?_

Silence permeated as he neither protested nor accused for several moments. Half of him was allowing the other to think and perhaps realize what his true feelings were.

__

If you do nothing she will become what you once were, what her forgiveness saved you from. He scolded himself further. 

Aoshi lowered his head in remembered shame as he thought of his path to darkness, to selfish ruin. In his obsessive search to defeat Himura Battousai for the title of 'the strongest' he had become cold and unfeeling. Is that what she was destined to become? Like him? Is that what he had taught her, darkness; just as she had taught him, light? Push your feelings aside and they cannot hurt you, bury you emotions deep and no one will be able to use them against you. Become what you can to avoid the pain waiting for you when you realize, nothing you can do will change what happened. He knew that, better than anyone. He knew her, better than anyone. 

"Misao-dono!" Aoshi did not turn as Himura gasped beside him, putting an end to his internal exchange.

"Iie." Aoshi whispered, shaking his head as he came to a conclusion, lifting his head, searching the lifeless depths of eyes that should have been blue as midnight and sparkling with as many stars. "Only a ghost of Misao."

"I agree." Himura muttered after a long pause. He and Aoshi turned in unison and left the gallery, returning to the dojo in silence. 

"Himura?" Aoshi called quietly, stopping just as they entered the gate, waiting while the one called turned his smiling, knowing eyes on him, waiting for him to continue, to ask what he'd been wanting to tell him these four years. "Where is she?" 

"She's in Paris, France." He answered without hesitation.

_So far away_. He thought lifting his eyes to the horizon, searching the landscape coming back to rest on the now serious eyes of Himura Kenshin who watched him steadfast.

"Do not leave her there, Aoshi." He spoke with the conviction that had won over so many of his enemies. "She belongs here, with you." 

He nodded then turned and left the dojo without saying a word, returning to his own house. He had several contacts outside of Japan; one of which he knew was still in France. He could use them to discover her exact location; it wouldn't be easy as she was trained well to be evasive. He was not home for more than twenty minutes when Koaru-san appeared at his door, without saying a word she thrust several envelopes at him and left. He stared after her curiously for several moments before looking down at the letters he held… letters from Misao. Closing the door he went back inside to read each letter, devouring every word and it was as if he could hear her soft voice, whispering the words into his ear, her soft breath caressing his cheek as she did so. He could feel her nearby, standing so close that the clean scent of her flowery perfumed hair filled the room, a few of the strands escaping her braid, drifting across his skin like silk threads.

He was gone outside of two weeks, Koaru's letters providing all the information he needed to find her and all the information he needed to realize everything that she had suffered in her self-imposed exile. She had very pointedly avoided mentioning him in any of her correspondence, a self-defense mechanism no doubt, after all, who wanted to be reminded of that which served only to cause you pain. He had grown hopeful in his long hours of meditation while aboard the ship; he would often stand at the bow and stare off into the distance, nothing but the blue sea before him, reminding him of the colorful depths of her eyes.

Soon, he would see her. And she would save him. Comfort him. Soon.

Paris, France 1884

Misao inspected the apple she held for any bruises, holding it up to the light to make certain it wasn't too ripe. There was nothing worse than biting into what you believe will be a crisp, juicy apple only to find it dry and mushy. Yuck! She shivered at the thought before determining that the one she held was good and placing it in her basket she selected another, subjecting it to the same scrutiny. She stiffened suddenly as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, a sensation washing over her that she had not felt in years… someone was watching her, staring, intently. Trying to appear as casual as she could she turned slowly toward the street, looking carefully in one direction and then the other. There was no one, just strangers passing on his or her way home, no one out of the ordinary. Turning back she noticed Auguste, the owner of the small market she stood in front of waving at her from his window, beckoning her inside.

__

It must have been him. She thought as she smiled and nodded at the old man and quickly selecting one more apple went inside.

"Monsieur Hanya." He greeted cheerfully. "Come in, come in."

She greeted him with a smile and bowed at the waist, many of the people that saw her on a regular basis had come to expect it, knowing it to be a Japanese custom, some even bowing in return.

"Bon jour Auguste-san." She greeted moving further into the store as he kept beckoning with his hand. "I am on my way home and could not help but stop when I saw the delicious looking apples on the cart outside."

"Oui. They are the best quality, from a local grower, not far from here." He moved from behind the counter and led her to the back of the store. "Look here."

Misao followed him indulgently and then looked to where he indicated, gasping as her eyes widened in surprise and delight at the bulk of fresh cherries he showed her.

"Arigato! Arigato!" She cried forgetting herself momentarily sounding very Japanese and very feminine. "Ano… I mean… merci."

"It's okay Monsieur Hanya." The old guy winked at her, as if saying 'I know your secret, I know what you are.' It is good to forget ourselves now and then."

She nodded, eyeing him suspiciously, wondering if he had guessed more than he should have. He handed her a paper bag and she began to fill it, darting glances at him from the corners of her eyes. 

__

Does he know, I wonder? She thought silently. _Does he realize that I'm a woman, that I'm hiding, that I'm… No, he can't possibly know._

Misao filled her bag with as much of the cherries as she could eat before they rotted, collected a few more living provisions, paid for her things and left the store, catching the first few drops of what would become a dousing spring shower. She had reached the end of the street when the rain increased; she ducked into the doorway of a small shop and waited for the rain to let up. Not only did the rain continue but it was fast approaching nightfall, now it was not only wet but dark as well.

"Great." She grumbled buttoning up the front of her jacket, she tucked her paper bags of groceries inside, pulled up her collar and stepped out into the rain to make her way home, resolving never to forget her umbrella again, just as she did every time she got caught in the rain. Fortunately she was still fast and could cover the few miles in no time at all; of course she could have done it faster if she didn't have to worry about her groceries.

"Thanks a lot." Misao grumbled turning a gimlet eye on the sky that had ceased its downpour the minute she reached the lodge. She thought she might stop by and pick up any mail that might have arrived in the last week but looking down at her wet, mud splashed clothes she decided against it. She could just as easily come by in the morning. On the verge of turning away she stopped suddenly as the door flew open and light spilled out as well as the voice of the proprietor's daughter.

"Monsieur Hanya-san!" The little girl chirruped grabbing her hand and pulling her inside. Misao laughed but remained immovable, shaking her head.

"One or the other Aimee-chan." Misao corrected, then explained loud enough that her father could hear from behind the counter. "I'm covered in mud right now, I'll stop by tomorrow."

"No, no. Papa has a package for you." She pulled again and Misao looked up to see her father nodding from where he stood. "It came today."

She looked down at herself one more time, she really was a mess and didn't want to make more work for the family who lived in and took care of the lodge, the little girl tugged at her hand again. She could just as easily pick it up in the morning but doubted the little girl would relent and so she compromised.

"I don't want to get the floor dirty, so I will wait here Aimee-chan." She bargained with the little girl, looking up at her father she smiled. "Your papa can bring it to me; ne?"

Her father nodded and was already moving from around the counter, carrying a large package, it appeared to be the shape of a canvas and Misao's eyes narrowed on the brown wrapping. Who in the world would send her a painting? Probably someone who wanted his or her money back; she smirked at the idea. She was surprised at the weight when she took hold of it, struggling to balance it, she finally got it under control but had no way to hold onto her groceries, the bags were slipping out from under her coat. 

"I will have Aimee help you carry your groceries." She heard the proprietor's voice from behind the bulky painting, then felt him collecting her grocery bags, fortunately for Aimee they weren't heavy and after some minor adjusting she was walking alongside the little girl to her cottage, set back into the woods behind the inn. 

"What did you do today Aimee-chan?" She asked her young helper as they walked. She had always felt an affinity for the young girl, growing up operating an inn was not too far from her own upbringing if one didn't count the ninja thing.

"I met the man I want to marry." She sighed wistfully. Misao nearly choked, turning her head she tried to look at the little girl, barely managing to as the painting she carried made it next to impossible. "He was the most beautiful man I have ever seen… and kind."

"Aren't you a little young to be deciding on a husband Aimee-chan?" She asked with teasing laughter at the emphatic shake of the little girl's head she asked. "Where did you meet him?"

"He brought the painting, he said it was a gift." She offered and Misao's brows drew together in a frown, curious she remained quiet and let the little girl continue rambling. "Not for you but someone you know. He said you would know who to give it to."

Misao's steps slowed her frown deepening. A gift? She would know who to give it to? Maybe there was a note among the letters that Aimee carried; she hoped so because she could not for the life of her guess who it was meant for. Shrugging her shoulders she resumed her normal pace and only half listened to Aimee's chatter as they made their way to her door.

"He was like you, Monsieur Hanya-san." Aimee replied to the question of what the man looked like may have triggered Misao's suspicions if she had been paying more attention. To her disadvantage however, she only caught the mistake in her grammar, explaining to her again that she could use 'monsieur' or 'san' but using both was like saying the same thing twice.

They reached the cottage; Misao opened the door and set the painting carefully on the floor, leaning the backside of it against the wall. She turned and collected her things from Aimee and set them aside, pulling an apple from her bag she handed it to the little girl who beamed up at her, clutching the fruit to her chest.

"Ahh…reee…gaa…toh. Hanya-san." Misao smiled at the attempt the little girl made to imitate her. 

"Do itashimashite Aimee-chan." She answered then chuckled as Aimee bowed slightly and ran off, back to the inn. She stepped inside and closed the door, picking up her bags she set them on the small table next to the window and began to unbutton her coat, turning back to the painting that rest against the wall behind her. She wondered again at the mystery of the whole thing, then, she stiffened as for the second time that day she felt someone's eyes on her, someone she knew without a doubt was in this room with her. Slowly, discreetly she reached under the hem of her vest and pulled the knife she carried from its sheath. Turning quickly in the direction of where she knew the stalker to be she took a defensive stance.

"Show yourself!" She shouted, staring intently into the dark, unable to see but knowing despite that, it was where they hid themselves. Damned thieves. They remained in shadow and she suddenly caught a sense of something, a feeling of… familiarity. Her knuckles tightened around her knife, her eyes widening momentarily as she realized that this person probably didn't understand her, that they were most likely not French. She swallowed hard, trying to choke back her nervousness, wanting to delay confirming what she feared but unable to she shouted a second time, in Japanese. "Show yourself!"

She felt their movement immediately, her eyes narrowed and her knife poised, ready to do battle with anyone who would challenge her, she waited. Even before he reached the light she knew silent feet he might have but nothing could dampen the presence of this man from her awareness. Still she waited. Immovable until he reached the light, unconvinced until she could see with her eyes. The sight of him was staggering, he was still so beautiful, still managed to take her breath away, still frightened her.

"Aoshi-sama!" She barely managed to gasp out his name, the knife fell unnoticed from her hand and she stepped back toward the door.

"Still so formal Hanya." The smooth timbre of his voice caressed her ears for the first time in four years. "After the passage of so much time I would have thought things would have grown less so."


	4. From Every Limb the Leaves are Cast - 4

He had forgotten. He watched her step over the threshold and it suddenly hit him that in her absence he had forgotten the overwhelming feeling; the power of that irrevocable pull drawing him to her. He remembered feeling it the first time when in his madness he had nearly taken the life of the man who had cared for them both as children, cared for her still. He had struck him down, ruthlessly and as Okina's body crumpled to the ground before him, he was left to face her for the first time in eight years. The feeling had so overwhelmed him then that she had very nearly pulled him from his madness, pulled him to her; very nearly had him giving up everything, his quest against Himura Battousai… everything, just to lie on the ground at her feet.

His heart had stopped beating and he could not breathe, he was trapped in the allure surrounding her. His darkness was a powerful master however, with an allure of its own, he could feel it blanket him in its mad embrace, pulling him back and giving him the strength to turn away, to strike at her, just as ruthlessly as he had Okina, with words.

In the time after his madness, when he'd returned to the Aoiya, he never forgot, could not forget, the way she drew him to her. Every day that he saw her he fought against it, stood resolute and immovable against it. All those years… so cold, so empty, as if the life-sustaining beat of his heart nor the essential drawing of his breath had returned.

Until now…

His breath quickened as he watched her, his heart beat frantically like a bird battering its wings against his breast, crying, 'set me free, set me free, you have imprisoned me long enough, set me free'. It was true, he had… his heart had been locked away as he fought a battle he never had any hope of winning, a battle he no longer wished to continue and at last he surrendered. Relaxing. Drifting. Like the tide drifting toward the shore, he let her pull him toward her. At last he realized… he was a part of her. At last he understood… he belonged to her. At last he could see… he had always… always, loved her.

His heart unbound, it soared to heaven, which for him was waiting across the room.

The distinctive sound of a knife unsheathing sang in his ears and alerted him, his eyes sharpened on the blade she held in her hand as she stepped closer, taking a fighting stance. He had apparently been staring too long and she'd felt the sensation even with him completely hidden in the shadows.

"Show yourself!" She demanded the foreign tongue at odds with her true native dialect. He remained still for several minutes, still watching, then noticed her knuckles tightening on the handle, her eyes widened momentarily, a slight tick on her left cheek was visible only by the most discernible eye. It was revealing enough to him, however and so he was not surprised when she repeated herself again, only this time in the language of her true home. "Show yourself!"

Separating himself from the shadows he moved forward, stepping into the pool of light, left by the moon that broke through the dissipating rain clouds and in through the window. He made not a sound as he moved and he could sense her apprehension and fear as she no doubt guessed whom it was before she could see him. 

"Aoshi-sama!" Her knife clanged to the floor as she gasped his name and took a step back.

"Still so formal Hanya." He tried to keep the tremor from his voice as the captivating whisper of his name on her lips for the first time in four years threatened to overwhelm him. "After the passage of so much time I would have thought things would have grown less so."

Misao started to tremble. She tried, without much success to form the whirlwind of thoughts spinning through her head into words. A million questions that culminated into nothing more than her mouth opening, a small sound resembling a gasp escaping, followed by her mouth closing. Finally she resigned herself to merely shaking her head at him, her eyes widening when a semblance of what appeared to be a smile formed on his face.

"It has been a long time." She blinked as the sound of his voice pulled her from her shocked stupor although she was still unable to speak. "Hasn't it Hanya?"

Misao managed a stupefied nod and made something of a squeak as he stepped closer; she was certain the sound of her racing heart could be heard throughout the room as it pounded in her ears. She could not say why but she was certain she had never been more afraid of anything in her entire life as she was at his sudden appearance. Afraid of what though… of him? Or was she afraid of herself? 

__

Still so beautiful. She marveled again, feeling the odd burning in the palms of her hands as she yearned to touch, his skin, his hair, any small part of him. Curling her fingers into the flesh of her palms she clenched her fists tightly and hid them in the sleeves of her coat; not wanting him to see how they trembled, how even now, after all this time what was forbidden still beckoned her. The fear was of herself then, not of him.

__

How foolish to have forgotten that. She looked away, a small self-deprecating smile curving one corner of her mouth at the silent reprimand. The whirling confusion of her thoughts was starting to slow, to slip into place and the shock at seeing him so suddenly began to dissipate. _You're not that girl anymore, the innocent temptation of youth is not yours anymore._

"I see you are still fond of wearing masks Hanya." His words surprised her; she turned toward him sharply, a confused frown creasing her brow.

__

Hanya? She wondered. He certainly knew she was not Hanya, he could see who she was, he knew Hanya was dead, he'd been there when it happened, blamed himself for it to the point that he could not live beyond his guilt. Guilt that she had tried and tried and tried to alleviate; guilt that he would not let go of… just like her. 

"I am not Hanya." She whispered averting her eyes once more, her voice sounding weary, defeated, even to her own ears. Growing tired of this game of pretend she reached up and pulled off the beret she wore, removing the pin that held her long braid in place, it uncoiled and fell down the front of her shoulder. "Misao desu."

Silence loomed, almost deafening in its resonance, her eyes trained on the beret as she twisted it nervously in her hands, until she felt the lightness of his fingers stroking over her hair, toying with her braid. She slowly raised her eyes to look at him; he seemed almost… mesmerized by the braid held lightly in his fingertips, eyeing it curiously before his gaze shifted to meet hers. 

"Indeed you are." He whispered, a gentleness to his voice that she could not recall ever hearing from him, not even as a child. It was oddly hypnotic, seductive in a sense that was hard to equate with the reserved man she knew or had once known; it was compounded by the equally gentle brush of his fingers across her cheek. Startled and unused to being touched by anyone Misao pulled back, turning her face just enough to end the contact only to have his hand drop to her shoulder and with little effort pull her against him. 

"I am not Hanya." He had never heard that sound in her voice before, the sound of defeat or the sound of someone who had become like him maybe? Either way, it did not suit her and he had no wish to hear it from her again. His eyes followed her every movement, surprised when he found himself holding his breath as she removed the small cap she wore, waiting, able to breathe again only when her braid unraveled and fell over her shoulder. "Misao desu." 

Misao desu… _beautiful Misao_. Seemingly of their own volition his fingers brushed the soft hair framing her face and then lifted the heavy braid that lay over her shoulder. It was noticeably shorter than in the past, although it was still quite long. He could recall the few times in the past when he'd stiffened against the arresting feel of her braid caressing his skin. She had gotten too close while serving tea and the long silken rope had drifted across the back of his hand, or she had leaned over him while he pretended to meditate and it brushed his ear and cheek. Even then his heart knew what it wanted, even then. She was watching him; he could feel her eyes on him and lifted his own to become lost in the cerulean depths of hers.

"Indeed, you are." He murmured without intending to, his fingers lifted again, this time to brush lightly across her cheek, he was surprised at the alarm in her eyes, at the way she pulled back as if she could not bear human contact. 

Had she really grown like him? No, he would spare her that pain; the path of cold, empty ruin he had taken was not for the likes of her. With his hand firmly on her shoulder he pulled her to him, gathering her in his arms, resting his cheek on the top of her head. He would never let her go, he would never give her up to that darkness. To anything. She was the balm to soothe the aching in his heart. The one to fill the void in his soul. His other half, without whom he was incomplete. He had found his salvation in her; would offer her, her own and he would pray and beg and plead that she would accept it. He would be what she wanted, what she needed; friend, lover, protector… as long as he could be near her.

"Aoshi-sama…?" She breathed against his chest.

"I… I…" He stopped, took a deep calming breath before he continued speaking, his arms tightening about her. "I have missed you, Misao."

One month later

Bliss. If she had to choose one word to describe what her life had been these few weeks it would be bliss. Her days were spent much as they always were, in the guise of Hanya she continued to paint and teach the students at the school. Aoshi had accompanied her on several occasions to the school, evoking an avid curiosity among the students, who could not recall their teacher ever speaking of any friends or family and they certainly could not miss the way he looked at her. Misao could not miss it either; his eyes followed her no matter where she moved and in them she could see all that he felt; forgiveness, both his and hers, surrender, acceptance and love. Love. For her. 

It was more than just the way he looked at her, it was in everything he said, everything he did; even now. Lying together. Skin against skin. The length of his body spooned up behind her, his legs entwined with hers, his arms about her, holding her to him. Love. For her. For him. Yet… it was no longer that simple.

Shifting, Misao lifted her gaze to the painting that rest against the wall beneath the window. She felt Aoshi's arm tighten about her, his face burrowing further into the long tresses of her hair pooled at the back of her neck. She wished that she had never removed the brown wrapping that concealed the gift that she'd carried from the inn to her cottage, so many nights ago. She had realized almost immediately after Aoshi's appearance that it was he that had left it at the inn. A gift, not for Hanya, for Misao. 

Okina's garden. Every brush stroke, every blending of color served only to remind her of inevitability. Some day soon, bliss would come to an end. She had loved him for so long, loved him still, however with the passing of time came change. She had changed. She was not the same person he knew in Kyoto. She had grown up and learned that love did not always mean happily-ever-after.

What did it mean then… for her? It was impossible to define. Whatever its meaning, the feeling itself gave her strength, strength she would need when she was faced with inevitability.

Aoshi. She closed her eyes against the painting and shivered at the empty days of her future. Maybe this was what love meant for her. Emptiness. It was because she loved him so much that she could not allow him to stay. As much as he would protest she knew, he did not belong here and she had long since outgrown Okina's garden and would not paint it again. She shivered again and felt the immediate tightening of his arms about her, pulling her back against his warmth.

"Cold?" He whispered sleepily against her neck.

"Iie." She choked out, trying to hide the sadness in her voice. But I will be. I will be. Cold and empty. 

He was far too sensitive, she should have realized he would sense her emotions, feel the way her body grew tense while trying to hide them.

"Misao." His warm breath caressed her sensitive skin. "Dooshite?"

He stiffened when she failed to respond, lifting his head to look at her, noting her tightly closed eyes and the way she fisted her hands up under her chin. He slid his hand up to her shoulder and pushed her back into the mattress, she lay back willingly, opening her eyes to meet his searching gaze.

"Kotaero!" He whispered harshly giving her shoulder a small shake. "Tell me what's wrong."

Her eyes searched his for several moments in continued silence, not wanting to say anything that would put an end to what would surely end on its own soon enough. She reached up and brushed the tips of his hair with her fingers, then trailed them across his skin. He lifted his own hand and captured hers against his cheek, turning to press a kiss into her palm. How would she live without all the things he had given her; would continue to give her until…?

"You'll be leaving soon." She was barely able to whisper. 

"Ah." He agreed, although the look in his eyes told her so without words.

__

He would not protest after all. She thought sadly. _He knows as well as I that he does not belong here._

She turned her head to once again look at the painting, wishing she could go back, to once again be that child who tossed the sakura petals into the sky and tried to capture them all as they fell. She could not. That time was over, a great many of the petals had fallen since she had left and she could only stand aside and weep for their demise. She turned to look at the man she so loved, his face mere inches above her own, her hand still held within his own. That time was over.

"Okina's garden holds no charm for me, Aoshi." She whispered brokenly, the tears she held back spilled over and down her cheeks, disappearing after they burned wet tracks in her skin, embarrassed she looked away. "I have changed too much to return to it, do not ask me to."

He was silent and still for what seemed an eternity, his voice when he spoke was gentle and calm, his lips so close to her own that she could feel each syllable as it was spoken.

"Okina's garden was beautiful, a perfect haven for a little girl in Kyoto." He paused and she felt the light brush of his thumb, erasing the damp streak left by her tears. "You are not a little girl any longer Misao."

She turned sharply to meet his steadfast gaze. She knew she wasn't a little girl any longer. She had told herself that many times. Why then did it seem so much more poignant coming from him? As if she needed him to convince herself. Did he still possess her certainty? Was everything still incomplete, divided, unreal without him to validate it for her? Was it as she had suspected all along, that he truly was her other half, that without him, she would always be, incomplete?

__

I am not a little girl any longer. She knew it was true and so did he.

"You have captured Okina's garden beautifully in your painting." An equally soft brush of his mouth against hers followed his softly spoken words. "But there are many gardens left in this world for you to paint, Misao."

"Many gardens…?" She whispered in wonder. Was it really possible that there could be a place where they could live outside the monochromatic existence of her life and his life? A place where they could share, their lives. A garden, as Aoshi put it, which belonged to them. She could not help the feeling of hope that filled her at the possibilities of what he said, of what could be.

"One garden especially." His words were captivating, promising so many things. She yearned for him to continue, as the more he spoke the more she could feel the heavy darkness surrounding her heart lifting, dissipating as the light that lurked just outside her reach for so long, now grew close and embraced her. "The subject is not so appealing now, rather barren and without bloom; however, it can be beautiful Misao, it can be. It merely longs for the presence of love."

The presence of love? Love. Was it that simple after all? 

"Where…?" He could hear her surrender in that one word and placed a finger over her mouth to prevent any further speech. She watched as his mouth curved up in a smile and continued on into his eyes.

"Shinomori's garden." He whispered.


	5. From Every Limb the Leaves are Cast - Ep...

__

Come into the garden… 

But mine, but mine, so I swear to the rose

Forever and ever, mine.

And the soul of the rose went into my blood…

Tennyson

The full moon illuminated the white blooms of the moon flower vine growing up the wall, tomorrow morning they would be closed but the blue morning flowers on the intermingling vine will have replaced them, their cheerfulness a tribute to the sun. Aoshi sat down on the small bench among the irises and turned his face up to gaze at the deep midnight sky. The moon and stars always seemed to shine brighter from the garden; it was magical, enchanting, beautiful. Like her. 

Restless and uneasy he had come out here to avoid disturbing her peaceful slumber with his tossing and turning; just as it had the night before his uneasiness would not let him sleep tonight. One who had lived in the darkness, embraced it as he had could never be completely free of it. The darkness was always there. Resting. And although it did not happen often anymore, every now and again something would serve to remind him of the delicate balance of his… of their, hard won happiness. He'd received his reminder two nights ago and it was still with him.

"I will hunt you down!" The criminal had snarled angrily at Chief Uramura, ignoring his threats the police chief had hauled him off to jail. "I will hunt your family down as well!"

He and Himura Kenshin had worked from the shadows to catch the loathsome man. It had taken them two days to track him down and corner him; the police then were sent in to arrest him. The two reluctant heroes never revealed themselves or received any notoriety for their actions, which suited them fine, they preferred to remain in secret; however, secrets were only that as long as no one spoke of them.

The angry words, although not directed at him, echoed like ice through his veins; it was highly unlikely that the man would ever escape being imprisoned and he had seen neither himself nor Kenshin. Still, Aoshi had seen too many things, knew too much of the evil in the hearts of men to ignore the threat. His hand moved to his kodachi and he made to step from the darkened ally. A small but powerful hand on his arm made him stop and turn. Himura Kenshin.

"You would be doing your family no favors going after him Aoshi." Came the soft voice of reason. "He does not know of our involvement."

"But others do." He had offered quietly. Aoshi could tell by the surprise in Himura's eyes at his words that he had not thought of that. "Secrets can always be bought and sold Himura, you know this as well as I."

He felt a momentary tightening of the other man's hand on his arm before it loosened and was drawn back. Kenshin's gaze moved beyond him to the police station and Aoshi turned as well, the criminal was inside now, most likely being taken none too gently, to his cell. 

"I would pity the poor soul who came to your house, or the dojo looking for trouble Aoshi." Himura's voice, dangerously quiet seemed to echo throughout the quiet streets of Tokyo. Their gazes locked again and Aoshi was not surprised to see a flash of amber appear momentarily in the depths of his friend's eyes. Although Himura had been a reluctant killer, doing so only out of the desire to make life better for those who were less fortunate, to become that killer he had also embraced the darkness. Darkness that, like himself, he could not totally escape. They understood each other completely.

He brushed his hand lightly over the delicate petals of an Iris, just like in life, if he didn't take the greatest of care the tender flower would not last, would bruise if handled too roughly. This was how it was, loving her. Fragile. In need of protection. Like the deep violet bloom beneath his fingers. 

When he'd gone to Paris to find her four years ago he'd been so entangled with the unfamiliarity of expressing his own emotions that he'd thought of little else. Since his youth he had pushed all of that aside and although the feelings were still there, it was a monumental task to even acknowledge them for what they were and even more difficult to reveal them to someone else. Even her.

She had made it far, far too easy for him, however. He smiled ruefully as he recalled how the night of their reunion had ended. Her skin in the moonlight, the erotic brush of her long hair, loose from its braid, against his skin. He shivered at the tingling thrill of the memory. Far too easy.

Each moment they spent in Paris together brought her closer and closer to her old self, this was apparent in more ways than one and he'd realized soon after their reunion that the more they were together, the more feminine she became. It was not something he was overly concerned with himself, except in that she was still very much a man in the eyes of that city and he did not want her to suffer any repercussions for the discovery that she indeed, was not a man. After voicing his concerns she had agreed with him and come up with a solution. A solution that he was not entirely happy about but, for her safety, accepted none the less. He began to avoid accompanying her to the school and other public places where there was the possibility of a great number of people who could recognize her. 

To say he was 'not entirely happy' about it was an understatement, he was miserable and so he took to shadowing her every movement, knowing he could do so without detection, except by her maybe. Still he was willing to risk her anger over his behavior if it ensured that something, or worse, someone would not convince her that she should not go to Tokyo, that he, with all he'd done and all he'd been, was not worth taking on and she would be better off remaining where she was. Without him. Everyday his anxiety over this possibility grew, following them even to Tokyo as nothing was to say she couldn't change her mind once they'd returned home and so, even then, his shadowing continued, until…

Aoshi allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile as he recalled circumstances that presented themselves to rid him of his anxiety over that situation, to tie her to him… irrevocably, forever. It was bound to happen, the consequences of them living together, sleeping together and… his smile deepened at a particular memory.

Aoshi calmly climbed out of bed as the naked form of his wife shot up and out of their room for the third day in a row. Her hand clamped firmly over her mouth as she disappeared into another part of the house.

Sick again. He mused, wondering what she could have possibly eaten to disagree with her so much. He gathered her satin robe that he'd had made for her before they left Paris and carried it to the other end of the house where he knew she'd run to. 

The first two days she'd refused his help, embarrassed she had taken care of herself and he'd not been allowed to be concerned about her at all. Today however, like it or not he was not going to leave her alone. 

"Aoshi please…" She muttered weakly when he came upon her, unable to finish telling him to go away as another violent wave of nausea hit her. He ignored her and setting the robe aside he reached for her hair and pulled it gently away from her face, securing it back and out of the way. He draped the robe over her shoulders and then left, returning with a basin of water and a cloth. Exhausted and weakened from retching, Misao could not summon the strength to argue and so sat meekly as he took the care to clean her up, slip her arms into her robe and carry her back to bed where she slept the afternoon away while he held her.

It was then that he felt it, the presence of her spirit and that of another. Shock. Disbelief. Wonder. Could it be true? Slowly, hesitantly he lowered his hand to her abdomen and it took only a matter of moments, he could feel it through the satin layer of her robe. A child? Shock at the revelation soon turned to awe and was quickly followed by a protective surge that washed over him. His hand slipped beneath her robe and his fingers splayed across her belly, his other arm pulled her back, tighter against him as he spooned up behind her. He buried his face into her neck, nuzzling the sensitive skin exposed from her hair being tied back. This feeling, it was like nothing he'd ever felt before, almost animalistic in nature as he envisioned himself hovering over a Misao grown round and full with his child; growling at anyone who dared come near.

How she would have laughed at him if she knew. He had wondered if he should tell her when she woke up or wait a few days, or even feign surprise when he sent her to the doctor and she returned with the happy news. She would have been awfully angry if he had waited and she had discovered that he knew. Better to tell her then.

Light laughter and rustling fabric pulled him from his reverie, his head lifted and turned sharply toward the shoji that lead from the garden into the house. His breath caught at the vision of his wife, smiling, her hair falling about her shoulders, their son clinging to her leg, his head burrowing sleepily into the rumpled fabric of her robe.

__

'I would pity the poor soul who came to your house, or the dojo looking for trouble Aoshi.' He could hear Himura's words from two days ago playing through his mind again. Looking at his wife and son, the light of their untainted souls shining in the moonlight he thought. _So would I Himura, so would I._

"You've been out here for a while." Misao's voice reached out and caressed him, pulling him from the dark path of his thoughts. "We want you to come back to bed."

The tether tightened and pulled, the light beckoning him; unable and unwilling to fight it, Aoshi climbed to his feet and made his way to where they stood. He met her smile with one of his own, his hands catching her around the waist as she stood up on her toes to kiss him.

"I'm not completely helpless you know." She whispered after pulling back slightly in his embrace, her blue eyes serious as she spoke. "You worry too much."

His eyes widened momentarily in surprise. He should have realized that she would know what he was thinking, feeling. Hadn't she always? Yes. Better than anyone. He smiled down at her and she came willingly as his arms closed around her, pulling her against him and whispering 'you're right, I do.'

"Otousan. Otousan." The small voice accompanied a demanding tug on his pant leg and he turned as Misao stepped back. Aoshi looked down into his son's sleepy face, a chubby version of his own, except for the eyes. He stooped to lift up his son, whose small arms wound their way about his neck. Aoshi raised a questioning eyebrow as he clearly had more to say. "Okaasan is always right. She said so."

Misao giggled and stepped back out of his reach as Aoshi turned to look at her, his eyes narrowing playfully at her before turning back to his son who had the same eyes as his mother.

"Sou ka na?" He asked and smiled as his son nodded earnestly. "Well, did you know that she once believed she was a ninja spy?" 

"Honto?" The young voice filled with incredulity, his eyes widening.

"Mmm." Aoshi confirmed trying his hardest to hold back laughter and ignore Misao who gave a complaining 'hey' from behind him as she followed him into the house. "She believed that Okina-Ojiisan was too!"

Aoshi could not help but smile as his son turned and fixed his mother with a strange look who in turn used her blue, liquid pools of feigned hurt on them. Damn she is good at this. It seemed they were both susceptible to this fail proof weapon in her arsenal. He thought ready to apologize, anything to return the smile to her eyes. She knows me too well. 

"Gomen ne Okaasan…" Aoshi could see her smiling in triumph already as their son stuttered an excuse. "O… Okina-Ojiisan… he must have been a funny ninja."

"He was." She chimed in, no evidence of sadness left in her eyes or voice. Merely reconfirming Aoshi's theory that she was far too good with that weapon of hers but glad that she was no longer torturing him with it, although he didn't care for the mock sinister look she was giving him just now. "Just ask Otousan."

He turned a gimlet eye on her as his son turned to him questioning whether she had actually been right after all. Ignoring Misao's continued giggling he stepped past her and set his son on the futon then sat down beside him.

"We'll talk about it more in the morning." He spoke while they both climbed under the blanket to snuggle warmly together, his son dozing off almost immediately. He had his own weapon to use on Misao and closed his eyes against the pout he knew was coming as the two of them failed to invite her. Aoshi smiled when after a few moments she climbed in beside him and slowly snuggled up against him, without so much as a word. 

She was right. He thought. What had he been thinking spending time out in the garden when he could have been here? With them? He had allowed the darkness so many liberties with his life, had spent too much time there, time he could not reclaim, time away from her. Gathering her close, feeling the relieved sigh escaping against his chest as she lay her head down, he resolved to bury his demons at last, he would not allow them to disrupt his happiness, their happiness in this way again. It was the Meiji; he had a right to his happiness and besides… Misao was not completely helpless, just as she had said. He smiled and kissed the top of her head.

"Oyasumi Misao." He whispered against her hair.

"Oyasumi." She returned drowsily against his chest both of them drifting off to sleep.


End file.
